Before I head to the USA, I like to take several solo trips along the all too familiar streets of New Delhi.

As absurd as this tendency may sound, the discoveries I make after each adventure have a very special taste. Like a stubborn child who just won’t let go of his chewing gum, I place these discoveries under my tongue and lock them in with my taste buds. These experiences, stored in my sensory memory, unconsciously give my daily life on the seven seas an unforgettable taste.

Today I stand on the water-clogged streets of Delhi, stuck in a seemingly endless traffic jam. I am sitting in an autorickshaw, a mode of transport enthusiastically used by my country’s “middle class”. As I look around and the open ends of the vehicle give me endless access to the world, I cannot help but be fascinated by the accumulation of opposites that surround me.

Suddenly these stark opposites burst into a cacophonous conversation. As I listen intently, I find myself shedding the comforting cloak of a passerby and slipping into the deceptive garments of a devious eavesdropper.

The interaction begins with the truck to my left. Decorated in red and pink, it advertises funeral services to the general public. “Use our casket lining service. We honor lives,” it says in a voice heavy with the whir of its wheels.

A few inches away, I see a white Mercedes Benz glittering in the sunlight. A chauffeur-driven car. I look through the tinted window and see a newborn baby wrapped in soft fur. The Mercedes Benz breaks into a song of luxury, honks rudely and tells the autorickshaws to make way. “The roads belong to the rich,” he grins. “Even the raindrops fear the rich! Look at the world, stained by the rampant remnants of rain! Only comfort lives in my cushioned curves!” he adds.

Huddled close to the Mercedes Benz, I watch a group of beggars on the side of the road. These rain streaks seem to be a toy to them. With centipedes around their ankles and dirt in their hair, they break into folksy verses. Although the coarseness of their language makes me cringe, I smile gently. This smile is not a grin I can show with pride. It is a scar I must stamp on the soles of my feet, or I may be considered part of their clan.

Almost disgusted by my behavior, a whiff of cigarette smoke hits me in the face. Instinctively, I press my hands to my mouth as the fear of inhaling secondhand smoke permeates my asthmatic senses. “What did I do to provoke this reaction?” asks the whiff of smoke swirling around me.

“You are preparing the ground for disease,” I answer through my finger net.

A moment later, I hear the bell of the local temple ring. The marigold-adorned doors are opened to the faithful and a floral scent wafts through the sky. Much to my surprise, this floral scent does not overpower the stench of cigarettes. Instead, these contrasting aromas coexist in a way that seems ominously friendly.

Witnessing their unusual collaboration, I begin to speak to them in a tone that is far too high for my taste. The cloud of smoke probably came from the scalded ends of a vagabond cigarette, while the exotic scent of the temple flowers wafted delicately from the doors of the decorated deity.

“You have to split up,” I say as the cloud of smoke turns and stares at me.

“Separate. Why?” sighs the floral scent.

“You – a cloud of smoke – are evil… and you – a flower scent – are good. Good and evil do not go together,” I answer.

“But we’re heading to the same place,” the cloud of smoke explains, wrapping a grey spiral around the floral scent. As they merge into an ambiguously aromatic cloud, I see them drift towards the burial site – where they dissolve into the misty remains of a quietly smoldering body.

Finally, in the farthest corner, I see the protruding arm of a rainbow emerging. It raises its indigo edges and stretches into the vast expanse of sky. Transformed from the initial devious eavesdropper to the innocent spectator, I am delighted by this role reversal.

As I sit back in my auto rickshaw and watch the traffic jam groan and grimace before finally deciding to move with a soft belch, the rainbow arches across the sky. The crowd of beggars, who were initially singing crude verses, now look at the rainbow with eager eyes. They run across the stony roads with their hands outstretched, reaching towards the sky – they want, as they say, to rip the rainbow from the sky and make it into a necklace for their waiting mother.

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